Unspoken
by JYLG
Summary: A Yuki and Shuichi piece. Silence can be the worst enemy.


Revised: I wasn't happy with some bits. The body is very much the same, I'm just the kind of person who's obliged to fuss over the small details. Fixed some of the Jap words (thanks pyne); I'm staying away from them from now on.

UNSPOKEN

_Gravitation and its characters belong to Maki Murakami._

A Yuki and Shuichi piece.

                Shuichi flopped onto a bench, his tired frame grateful for the respite as he leaned back to gaze up at the sky, the darkening expanse a pattern of dark gold, violet and red. He'd been the last to leave the studio that afternoon, but even then it hadn't been that late. Had he truly spent so much time in the city? He grinned ruefully at the answering complaint in his stomach. Aah, perhaps a little too long.

                They had celebrated again that day, another miniature party in a long line of them; a success story that was anything but what their band name inferred. Stable album sales and popular marketing, culminating in the announcement Sakano-san had sprung on them a couple of months ago: they had cinched the Asian deal. Bad Luck would be touring outside Japan, for the first time. 

                And so the drinks had come out again, in the middle of the day. K insisted they not dishonour their good fortune, insisted they pay it due homage consistently. Sakano-san, still enthusing over the deal, let the alcohol flow, had even joined K in the drunken revelry that the latter was so fond of.

                Shuichi had left them cheering boisterously in the studio, Hiro and Fujisaki sipping their own drinks, one in amusement, the other in exasperation, and locked himself in an empty sound room down the hall; he'd done his share of celebrating, he had work to do now.

The song meant too much to him.

                He tilted his head to stare forlornly at the writing pad he'd tossed onto the bench. The papers were curled, crumpled and folded with so much handling and so much flipping back and forth, their surfaces a mess of scribbles and crosses.

                His stint in the quiet of the sound room had not done him any good, and on impulse, Shuichi had abruptly tried the other extreme. After practice he had wandered off alone through the city, seeking inspiration in the vibrant chaos of the late afternoon, when schools, shops and offices emptied their occupants into the streets.

                But the words simply would not come, and frustrated and weary, his aimless meandering had finally brought him here. 

                It was one of the more isolated paths, curving around the slope of a low hill. Past the railing the ground fell away sharply, and over the top of the trees that hugged its base loomed the city skyline.

                Here they had first met. Here the rest of Shuichi's life had begun.

                He smiled sheepishly at the last thought. Yuki had come into his life just about the time Bad Luck had signed onto NG Records, and he had thrown himself into both loves with equal vigour and bliss. 

He stretched, feelings a bittersweet mix of joy and melancholy. He'd understood from the beginning, when Bad Luck had first gone public, that fame was an uncertain, rocky path to travel. Whatever made him think that it would be any different with Yuki? Even from the start, when the writer had carelessly thrown his lyrics back in his face, he should have realised.

But he was thick headed that way. He was in too deep now to let go. 

Shuichi frowned, turning his attention back to his writing pad. He was having no better luck here, along the path where he'd first met Yuki.  And he was running out of time. Sighing defeatedly, he pushed himself off the bench. 

Time to head home.

*****

                "Ne, Yuki."

                "Mm?"

                "Just one?"

                Fingers stilling – an infinitesimal moment – before resuming their activity, the rhythmic clack of keys as good as any voiced reply.

                _...turned his back on her..._

                "One?"

                _...and ignored her pleas for..._

                "One?"

                Dammit. Such stubbornness.

                "It's late. Go to sleep."

                A sigh then, acceptance finally of his own refusal to give in. 

                "If you won't give me one, I'll steal one instead."

                Nani – ? He stiffened. Thin arms curling around his neck, fine hair brushing against his nape and lips pressed against his cheek before drawing back to touch his ear.  "Oyasumi, Yuki." 

                He jerked away, scowling at the delighted laughter that fled his study.

                "Teme..." Eyes returned to the screen. 

                _...and ignored her pleas for..._

                Fingers poised, but unmoving. _for..._

                Damn. _for what?_

                "Moron."

*****

                Shuichi disliked the silence that so often pervaded the apartment. It was partly the reason why he was so loud and boisterous, at the risk of incurring Yuki's wrath. But he was used to Yuki yelling at him; it was the silence that he didn't like, not Yuki. 

                It was oppressive now, a heavy, bleak contrast to the hustle and bustle of the city he had just returned from, but this time he hadn't the heart to rally against it. He had only just realised how tired he was when he'd stepped into the apartment. Latching the door behind him, he kicked off his shoes and rubbed at bleary eyes, two things foremost in mind: Yuki and sleep. 

                The study door was closed. Pressing an ear to its surface, Shuichi could hear the muffled *katakkatakkatakka* of typing keys. Straightening, he pinched his cheeks a little, slapped on a cheery grin and flung the door open. "Yukiiii!"

                True to form Yuki continued to type. Accustomed to the lack of response Shuichi bounded over to the table and dropped his head to read over Yuki's shoulder, close enough to whisper into his ear, but not touching. "How're ya doin'?"

                *kaTAK* Shuichi winced inwardly. Drawing in a determined breath, he chirped, "Had dinner yet?"

                "On the table." *KATAKKATAKKATAK* "Don't bother me and get out."

                Shuichi sighed. 

                Any other day Shuichi would have been undeterred, would have cajoled and insisted until he figured out what was wrong, would have tried to make things right in his own clumsy, misguided way. Any other day Yuki would have yelled at or kissed him to shut him up.

                But today Shuichi was tired, brain dead and bone weary. Today, this one time, he would respect Yuki's demand for privacy. "Okay." Pecking Yuki on the cheek he stretched. "I'm going to bed." He paused –  "Good luck." – before walking away.       

Yuki had not bothered to turn away from his work to look at him – Shuichi never expected him to – but as he gently closed the door behind him, he was unaware that the sound of typing keys had stopped.

*****

                "Yuki?"

                He stifled a groan, resisting the compulsion to go deeper into the blankets.__

                "Yuki, are you awake?" 

                No, I'm still asleep. Go away. 

                The bed dipped behind him, and he stiffened. He couldn't fake sleep for long, he knew: a refusal to respond to Shuichi's attempts to rouse him would only result in the baka taking more liberties...

                If he does that thing to my ear again... His skin prickled with awareness – he could feel the brat lean over him – and he prepared for the worst.

                He was suspicious at first, when nothing happened. What now? What was he up to?

                Pondering the alternative of simply opening his eyes and jerking away, he almost started at the hand that touched his forehead, gently brushing the bangs aside. 

                "Yuki baka." A loving whisper, a wealth of emotion in just two words – amusement, exasperation, concern. 

                "You didn't get any sleep again last night – your deadline's still in another two days, you have time. You always push yourself so hard."

                The bed sank further as cool lips brushed against his temple. "Oyasumi, Yuki. I'll cook us something good for dinner tonight.

                Love you."

                The weight that retreated from the bed was careful to avoid jostling, and Yuki only opened his eyes at the soft click of the door closing.

                He stared at and beyond the bedroom wall, wondering why he didn't feel like sleeping anymore. Turning onto his back, one arm came up to cover his eyes, and he scowled.

                He hoped Shuichi had been joking about dinner.

*****

                Shuichi grimaced at the bitter taste on his tongue, but manfully finished off the rest of the coffee. Not partial to the beverage, he avoided drinking it whenever he could, but that morning it was either force it down or fall flat on his face on the way to the studio. 

                Rinsing the mug out, he eyed the writing pad on the counter next to him and sighed despondently. Late to bed, early to rise, and nowhere near completing his song. He lifted his eyes to the calendar hanging on the fridge door, feeling the stirrings of a now familiar panic. No time now. Have to finish it soon.

                He put away the mug, swallowing over the dryness the coffee had left in his throat. Glancing at his wristwatch he had to rub at his eyes before he could read the hands properly. It was getting more and more difficult to get up now – he'd almost slept through his alarm earlier. _I'm so tired..._

                Slipping the writing pad into a side pocket, Shuichi pulled his bag off the counter and padded out of the kitchen. Pausing outside the bedroom door, he checked his watch again and frowned. It probably wasn't a good idea to bother Yuki now; the hour was too early. Yuki never liked being woken up in the mornings anyway. Still, one peek wouldn't hurt.

                He started a little when he pushed the door open to the waft of cigarette smoke. A flick of the wrist, cigar in one hand, propped up on one knee in bed. Shuichi fidgeted as Yuki lifted his head from the sheets, and amber eyes shifted to look at him. So early, why was Yuki awake?

                The silence was so loud.

                He cleared his throat. "What's wrong Yuki?" Drawing closer, he sat down on the edge of the bed. "Why are you up? Didn't you get any sleep last night? Aren't you tired? Isn't it a little early to be smoking?" The questions were half-hearted, without any real expectation of answers. Shuichi brushed absently at the covers where Yuki had let the ash fall from his cigarette, and checked the time again. He had to be going soon if he wanted to work some more on his song before the rest of the group showed up at the studio.     

                "Ne, Yuki, I have to go. I'll see you later okay?" Shuichi lifted his head to peck him on the cheek, but paused at what he saw in Yuki's face. Uh oh. Yuki in a bad mood was not uncommon, but so early in the morning, with him so unusually lucid... Shuichi's mind kicked into automatic gear as it scrambled to recall the last few days and any reason for Yuki to be mad with him.

                But the last week or so was a mess of faces and places, a distant cycle of sleep and work. Throughout the promos for the Asian tour, between the interviews and rehearsals and ad shoots, life had become about finishing the song, the only real, clear meaning for him. 

                In fact, it took up so much of his time that he'd actually been good. He hadn't been loud or whiny or messy; he was too tired to do anything but collapse at the end of the day. No reason he could think of for Yuki to be cross with him.

                Was his latest story giving him problems? Shuichi sighed mentally; Yuki guarded his writing jealously, deflecting the young singer's attempts to help with scathing criticism of Shuichi's lack of talent in composing lyrics.

                All the more reason to make sure he get his song right, do it good enough for Yuki. "Yuki..." he trailed off uncertainly. What now? But Yuki made the first move, shifting away, eyes dismissing him. Grounding his cigarette on the bed's headboard, he rose smoothly and walked out of the bedroom.

                Shuichi stared at the remnants of the cigarette. _Tired... He was numb, only vaguely aware of the throbbing beginning in his head, the scratch of coffee in his throat, the sting in his eyes._

                What now? What to do?

                _Studio. Right. To the studio. Tour rehearsals. Finish the song. He pressed one hand to his eyes, shut tight against the wetness, denying the reality. Comfort, in completing his small project, make Yuki proud of him.    _

His head still ached though, his eyes still hurt, when he treaded softly by the kitchen. He paused, half-fascinated by the workings of Yuki's throat, head tilted back to drink long and deep from a can of beer. So unhealthy, so early in the morning.

                "Yu – " Yuki's shoulders stiffened. Stupid. Shut up. Not now.

                "Ittekimasu." The word was so soft he doubted Yuki had heard him. Shuichi let himself out of the apartment with a heavy heart, knowing that it wouldn't have mattered to Yuki if he had. 

*****

                He would have missed the key turning in the lock if the tv had not been on mute. He'd been surfing the channels disinterestedly; this late at night, the only programs on were repeat documentaries and B-grade movies.

                "Tadaima." It was a soft sigh, spoken more out of habit than anything else. No reply was ever forthcoming; Yuki had abandoned the practice after living on his own for so long, and Shuichi did not expect it of him.

                "Are?" Yuki had put the remote control aside and he looked up at the surprised sound. "Yuki, you're not working?" He said nothing in reply; the weariness was there in Shuichi's shoulders, in his eyes, in the listless way his bag trailed along the floor in his wake.

Shuichi flopped onto the couch, sprawled on his back next to Yuki. "Sorry I had to miss dinner – I would have come home sooner, but we were just so close to finishing that last track, and K wouldn't let us go..." Yuki let him ramble. Violet eyes stared at some point far up the living room wall, speech frequently punctuated by yawns, and exhaustion tempering the familiar cheer and enthusiasm.

Shuichi tilted his head to gaze up into amber eyes. "So what did you eat for dinner?"

He shrugged. Whatever was lying around the place. A beer, a cigarette. After Shuichi had called about missing dinner, the last paragraph had become difficult to write, and it wasn't long before Yuki had abandoned it in frustration.

Restless pacing around the apartment, into the kitchen. He'd rummaged half-heartedly through the fridge and cupboard, and though stocked well enough, he couldn't find anything to eat. Finally he'd jerked the fridge door open again with an exasperated growl and pulled out a beer.

                He hadn't touched his manuscript for the rest of the night.

                Shuichi had curled onto his side, head pressed up slightly against Yuki's thigh, eyes closed. Images still flickered on the tv screen, but Yuki was no longer paying attention. Shuichi's breathing was gradually easing into the rhythm of sleep.

                He was suddenly hungry.

                He should have let Shuichi be, but some perverse streak prompted Yuki to nudge the boy, albeit gently. "Oy, do you want something to eat?"

Shuichi stirred under the prodding, shifting closer. "Mm, I'll eat tomorrow..."

Yuki raised one eyebrow. "Dinner?"

Another yawn. "Didn't have time just now..."

"Ahou." He was surprised at how sharp his tone had come out. "Get up and..." he trailed off. He'd already half-lifted himself off the couch, when one hand came up to clutch at the tail end of his shirt.

"I'll eat tomorrow. Stay here?" A simple request, violet eyes faintly pleading.

"Stay here?" Shuichi yawned again, smiling when Yuki dropped back wordlessly. With a contented sigh, he lowered his head to rest on Yuki's thigh, unaware of the muscles that tensed beneath his cheek before relaxing. He nuzzled closer, unwilling to relinquish his hold on Yuki's shirt. "Yuki?"

"Mm?"

"You smell good." 

Yuki snorted in disbelief. "I smell of smoke and beer."

"Aa. That's why you smell good."

He was still brooding over the bizarre observation much later, after he'd switch the tv off; there was nothing on to interest him anymore. Long fingers were carefully gentle as they combed through pink hair. It was a long while later before they stilled possessively and Yuki resigned himself to spending the rest of the night on the couch.

*****

He was slumped on the couch, the much abused notepad on the coffee table. They had the weekend off, a couple of days to take it easy before Bad Luck left for the first leg of their tour on Tuesday. Spirits and expectations at the studio were high; everything was going well, nothing could go wrong.

Nothing had turned out the way he wanted. 

He could see the lyrics in his head, no order to the words as they crashed and merged and broke away again, and his head ached with the noise of it. A couple of days. Not enough time. 

He sighed, and grimaced. The itch in his throat had never really gone away, felt drier now, was harder to swallow down. 

He knew, of course, that it was more than just the late nights and the coffee. He had made himself sick, had been for a few days, but it hadn't mattered; nothing important, he could deal with it later, once he was done.

But he had not finished the song, hadn't been able to. The loud chaos at the studio gave him headaches. Although scratchy his voice hadn't affected his voice, but it hurt to speak or sing. No one else had noticed though; he had caught Hiro watching him peculiarly a few times, but his friend had not cried foul on him. He had been careful, retreating often to the restroom or the lockers for pills and plenty of water. 

But it hadn't helped. His mind had simply shut down, balking at the induced strain it was put through. It demanded a rest that Shuichi had been reluctant to give it, not until he was finished with his song.

But he had had to give it up, had to finally concede defeat to the sickness that had invaded his system. Lying heavily against the couch, eyes closed and breathing shallow, Shuichi wanted to cry. He had poured feverish effort into his song, and hadn't been able to complete it. And most of all, Yuki wouldn't have cared either way.

He could weep now; Yuki wasn't home to see. Yuki had hardly been home since that morning when he'd walked out of the bedroom without a backward glance. He was distant, barely talked to Shuichi out of curtly telling him to eat or go to bed. And Shuichi, too tired and sick to do anything else, had reluctantly let it be, not knowing what was wrong, fearfully feeling the silence gain in strength, jeering him, overwhelming him.

When had he begun crying? He touched one wet cheek in bemusement and lifted his head. He blinked.

When had Yuki come in? 

It wasn't really fair, Shuichi thought dimly, that he was feeling so bad and Yuki looked so good. The man smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and the street. They stared at each other over the expanse of more than just the coffee table. Loud, loud silence.

"What's wrong with you?" Harsh words, blessed, blessed words in the emptiness.

Shuichi pitched off of the couch and staggered down the hallway. Flinging the door open, he dropped to his knees by the toilet bowl and retched.

*****

                The can clattered to the concrete to spin on its side and roll down the pavement, quickly followed by a dismayed cry and frantic chase.

                Finally scooping it up, Shuichi turned sheepishly, raising the can defensively when Yuki raised an eyebrow. "It's fine, it's fine! See?"      He dropped it back into the paper grocery bag that Yuki held, sticking his tongue out when the older man rolled his eyes. "Ne, let's go home, quick. Hara heta..."

                "You shouldn't complain – you're not the one cooking dinner." 

                "But Yukiiii..." The boy latched onto his arm, blithely ignoring his scowl. "You won't let me make dinner each time I said I would. And your cooking is always soooo good. And I do help wash the dishes. And – "

                Yuki groaned. "I get the idea. You can shut up now."

                "Hai, hai." He could hear the grin in Shuichi's voice. These days it took more than his pointed glares and sharp put-downs to shut the kid up. These days he couldn't really be bothered anymore.

                Bad Luck's studio equipment was being moved into a bigger studio room under K's supervision, and the manager had given the band members the day off. And that was not good for Yuki. The decision to go out shopping had been an impulsive one – the apartment couldn't hold all of Shuichi's energy, and with all the noise the little idiot was making, Yuki hadn't been able to make any headway on his manuscript. 

                Shuichi was humming distractedly under his breath. Yuki thought of shallow attraction and cheap baubles, smooth lies and convenient backseats, dying vows and lovers' spats. Romance fodder.

                With any luck he'd finish the latest installment for his editor by the end of the week.

                His arm jerked slightly back. Shuichi had slowed. "Oy, what –?"

                Faint sounds of merriment reached him from the back street that branched off to the left. Arms raised against half-hearted swipes, the young man grinning, the girl laughing too hard to bully past his defense effectively. Catching her hands in his own, forehead to forehead – contentment, joy.

                Love.

                Violet eyes, wistful, longing, envious. Hooded amber eyes looking away.

                A furtive glance sneaked up at him, ignored. Deliberate indifference, boredom. He shifted, an impatient sign to be moving again.

                A hand disentangled itself from his sleeve, and Shuichi walked ahead, unaware of the eyes that followed him disbelievingly. Anger, irrational and unwelcome. 

                Dammit. Fool. *Fool*.

                But Shuichi paused to stretch. "Yare yare." He turned back around, and Yuki was vaguely aware of the small frown on the boy's face, one that gradually smoothed out as Shuichi drew closer, replaced by determination. Resignation. Acceptance. He didn't move, face betraying nothing when the boy leaned up to kiss him softly on the cheek.

                "Aishiteru." Yuki simply observed from behind his sunglasses, tracing details: pert nose wrinkled, soft lip bit, fair skin slightly creased, but most of all the eyes, expressive purple turned dark with some inner thought. Yuki observed, eyes lingering so that memory would never, could never forget.

                Shuichi nodded, face suddenly clearing. "Aishiteru." He looked up then, seeking Yuki's eyes behind the shades. Yuki stared back, wondering what decision the boy had made, seeing the conviction of the boy's declaration in his face, firm, quiet confidence.

                And then he was seeing another face, tempered by years and experience, the person that Shuichi could become, mature assurance and unconditional giving. 

_Don't leave, don't go._

_                I won't, I'll stay._

                But Shuichi grinned then, the light mischief of youth, and Yuki blinked. "Let's go home Yuki. I wanna eaaaatttt..." Shuichi slung an arm through his again, cheek pressing against his coat sleeve for one brief moment before the boy drew back, pulling him along. 

                He tilted his head; the couple had disappeared, the back street empty of feeling.

                But he had Shuichi.

                He thought of the smallest gestures, the quietest words, the biggest acceptance, an ending for his book.

                He thought of an older, wiser Shuichi. He would have him, for the years to come.

_Don't leave, don't go._

                Let him have Shuichi. 

                _I won't, I'll stay._

*****

He had taken no notice of the silence, had lived with it for so long. Then Shuichi had come along with his noisy enthusiasm and incessant prattle, and silence turned enemy.

                It gloated now, had been gloating for the last two weeks within the walls of his apartment. Shuichi still came back, but the silence took no notice of the boy who spent so much time away, who let himself back in each night only to fall down and sleep.

Exhausted, no doubt, from having to deal with the Asian tour promos. Uncharacteristically, Shuichi had said little of Bad Luck's good fortune, but he hadn't need to; the tv and radio, the magazines and newspapers clamoured to cover Bad Luck's success story, homegrown talent, pride of the local community.  They adored Bad Luck and its music, adored Shuichi and his gruesome lyrics. Each of them, greedy for a piece of the pie.

Yuki had never liked sharing. He was selfish. He was also arrogant, and cold, and a bastard. 

He had been a bastard to Shuichi lately. 

Stubbing his cigarette out a tad too viciously, Yuki glared at the main doors of his apartment building. Laughable as it was, he was still human in some ways; he still needed to breathe, trading the grim, lonely air of the apartment for that of the streets. But always he came back here, back to the silence, a tired Shuichi and the growing void that was his fault.  

His lips curved ever so slightly. Yuki Eiri, the coward.

Up the elevator and down the hallway he wondered idly when Shuichi would be back. The boy didn't eat dinner at the apartment anymore; he had fretted about it at first, assuring Yuki it was only temporary, he really wanted to but he couldn't, he had too much to do at the studio, he'd make it up to him after it was all over, he still loved him...

Yuki had shrugged. "Do what you want." He had said the same thing each time, until Shuichi  caught on and stopped fussing.

He would watch some tv, check the time, pace a little, drink alot, smoke alot. When the key turned in the lock, he would sit and scowl at his laptop screen and at the noise that flooded his apartment.

He was beginning to despise the cycle.

Unlocking his door, Yuki paused. A pair of flashy red sneakers in the entryway, carelessly kicked off. Shuichi's knapsack, abandoned in the middle of the hallway. Nudging it to one side, Yuki stepped into the living room. 

                His heart tripped in his chest. Slouched low on the couch, Shuichi looked tired, broken... defeated, when he had no reason to be. Bad Luck was Japan's latest darling of music, and the media foresaw a sensational, triumphant tour. No reason at all.

                Shuichi shifted, touching one cheek before raising his head, and Yuki realised his eyes were wet. He saw the surprise and bemusement in the boy's face at discovering him, standing there, staring. Yuki shook himself mentally.

                "What's wrong with you?" 

Not "Are you all right?" or "Is something wrong?" Yuki Eiri, incapable of doing things properly.

                The boy lurched off the couch, and he braced himself for the impact of a full-on glomp. But Shuichi swung the other way, down the hall, and a short moment later Yuki heard wet, noisy heaving.

                The little idiot was sick.

                He stared down at the coffee table, absently noting the writing pad on its surface. Something hit the toilet floor tiles hard. Quick, shallow breathing, and then more heaving. Yuki shrugged out of his coat, dropping it on the couch. Going into the bedroom, he rummaged through a drawer and drew out a facecloth. He soaked it and wrung it out, watching the water trickle down, still listening to Shuichi retch. 

                The toilet was a small, dim recess in the gathering dusk of the evening. Yuki flicked on the light switch to better see the sordid mess for what it was. 

                Shuichi flinched, turning his face into the far corner that he was leaning in. Beneath the harsh white light, his skin was too pale, too clammy. He drew one knee up, his muscles quivering with tension as his gut decided whether or not it was done.

                Finally Shuichi reached out and jerked down the flush before looking up at Yuki with a slight, wry smile. "Ne, Yuki, I don't feel so good."

                Yuki remembered the cloth in his hand, and tossed it to him before walking back out into the living room. Lighting a cigarette, he fell back onto the couch and waited, hearing movement down the hall, in the bedroom, and then the sound of water running. 

                Shuichi was the kind of person who hopped in and out of the shower within the space of several heartbeats, but Yuki had a feeling he would be taking longer this time. He leaned forward for the ashtray, his eyes again straying to the writing pad, and he was bored enough to pick it up and flick through it.

                It was a quick, cursory shuffle, but his disinterested expression knitted into a growing frown. He slowed, pausing long enough to actually read the scribbles, even turning the pages back several times. 

                The pad was back on the table by the time Shuichi emerged from the shower, still toweling his hair dry. He wondered at Yuki's face, almost thoughtful, as he sat on the other end of the couch. Vomiting had cleared his head a little, even though his throat still hurt.

                "Why didn't you say anything?" His hands hesitated for a scant second before resuming their activity. "It wasn't a big deal. I took some medicine. I can't get sick now."

                "You should have thought of that before you actually caught something. You start touring soon; you think you'll be any better by then?"

                "Aa, I will." _I have to be. "I'm okay."_

                "You had your head in the toilet ten minutes ago. How is that okay?" Shuichi ducked his head, hiding behind the folds of the towel.

                An exasperated sigh. "What's wrong?"

                "N-nothing. It's okay, really."

                A brief pause. "Why won't you talk to me, Shuichi?"

                His head snapped up disbelievingly at the sound of his name, but Yuki wasn't looking at him, his head tilted back as he blew out more smoke. Shuichi stiffened when he leaned forward and casually picked up the writing pad. "Trouble again, with your songs?"

                No. No no no. Yuki wasn't supposed to see. He couldn't, not when Shuichi hadn't finished his song.

                Shuichi had never been good at hiding his feelings. Which was why it galled Yuki that he had not seen how sick the boy was. And whose fault was that, whose fault they didn't talk anymore? Yuki cursed   self-derisively, seeing Shuichi's stricken expression. 

                _You always came to me before with your lyrics. Why is this song any different?_

_                "What is it? A new song for your tour? Three more days, and you're not finished yet?"       _

                Shuichi was tempted to give in to hysterical laughing, at the irony of it. Aa, it was true, three more days and he wasn't finished. He had given up.

                "It's... nothing big. Just some small idea I was fooling around with." It was so difficult to say the words, he didn't like lying. Shuichi stood, mustering a smile. "Demo, it didn't work out." He reached out to grip one edge of the writing pad, tugging at it gently. "Nothing special."

                Yuki held on to his end. 'Nothing special' would not have warranted so much scribbling and erasing and crossing out. Shuichi was getting upset at his refusal to relinquish his grip, yet he didn't dare simply snatch it away. The more determined Shuichi was at getting the lyrics away from him, the more perverse was Yuki's curiosity at finding out what was so special about the song.

                Shuichi had lowered his gaze to focus on the writing pad, but Yuki's eyes never left Shuichi's face. Finally, reluctantly, Shuichi raised his own, and Yuki's heart stumbled again at the subdued defeat in them. 

                "Tell me." Hesitant, uncertain. "Please."

                If anything, Shuichi crumpled even more. "It was for you." And Yuki said nothing. His silence – how he hated the silence! – sparked something in Shuichi. Irritation, defiance, pride. He was sick, his emotions erratic, irrational, but he didn't care. He lifted his chin higher, as if daring Yuki to interrupt or ridicule him.

                "Hiro, Sakano-san, me – we're looking forward to the tour. It's the kind of break that we wanted, outside Japan. I really, really want this to happen. Yuki, I'll be a proper singer, like Sakuma-san! Other people in other countries, listening to *my* songs!" Yuki's lips tilted a little; he had missed that cheer.

                "I was so happy when I first found out. We partied alot in the studio." Shuichi paused, enthusiasm waning. "But then I realised, a few weeks ago, that we would be away a long time. And – and I thought you... I didn't want to leave you by yourself, so I... so I already had a melody, and I thought I'd write you a song that you could keep and play while I was gone so that it would be like I was always here and I wouldn't have to worry about you being alone but I started writing late so I didn't have enough time and I got so sick until I couldn't finish it..." Shuichi was acutely aware that he was rambling, but he'd lost his nerve halfway through; mindless chatter, he had discovered, did wonders for covering up painful embarrassment. 

                Yuki let him babble until he lost breath. They were still holding onto the writing pad, and he stubbed out his cigarette with the other hand before easing his grip, to Shuichi's relief. But Yuki let go of his end only to curl his fingers firmly around the boy's wrist. Shuichi blinked as Yuki tugged authoritatively until he was sitting on the writer's lap.

                Shuichi was beyond stunned. Yuki still held onto his wrist, turned it around to study his hand. "The song meant that much to you?" Hesitating, the singer nodded and looked away. "More than getting sick?"

                "I didn't *plan* on getting sick, it just happened, and I didn't have time to do anything – "

                "Shuichi." He shut up. His name, twice in one night. He stared at Yuki, wondering what was going on.

                Yuki was looking at him now, *really* looking. Shuichi wanted to lift one hand to the man's face, to the amber eyes regarding him so intensely. 

"Which do you think means more to me? The song – or you getting sick?"

                His heart slammed in his chest. Giving in to his initial impulse, Shuichi touched Yuki's face with shaky fingers, his eyes asking their own question. In response Yuki let go of his wrist, curving his arm around the boy instead, drawing him nearer. He turned his head slightly to breathe into the palm fleeting over his cheek. "Your hand's cold."

                It shouldn't be. He just got out of the shower. But Shuichi said nothing. It was inconsequential, meaningless compared to what Yuki had left unspoken.             

But he still wanted to know.

                "Yuki... about the last week... why were you mad?" Shuichi swallowed as Yuki stilled. "Was it your story? Or did... did I do something wrong?"

                "No." Contemplative, resigned. "I was being a selfish bastard."

                Shuichi blinked. "What?"

                The boy had been looking forward to the tour. Yuki had been brooding over it. Shuichi wanted to go. The fans wanted him to go. Distancing himself when he should have been closing the gap. Shuichi was not at fault, had never been.

                "I don't like sharing." Yuki waited patiently for the boy to catch on, saw it kick in. Violet eyes widened impossibly with a wholesome joy reflected in a brilliant smile.

                _I don't want you to go._

"I'll come back. I'm coming back." Shuichi's words were a fierce conviction. _I know. I know now. He leaned in, arms going around Yuki's neck. He wanted to be closer, into Yuki's skin, sure now of his place there. _

Yuki's grip tightened unconsciously. He closed his eyes, savouring the weight in his arms, the hair against his cheek, the even breathing in the hollow of his neck of someone at peace.

                That's right. He would always have Shuichi.

                ..........

                "You're still sick anyway... still going?"

                "*Yes!* I'll rest a bit for the next two days. I don't really have a headache anymore, and my throat doesn't affect my singing – I practised in the studio, and it was okay, and the others didn't know."

"Idiot. You probably just made it worse."

"But I'm taking medicine for it. Got them from the drug store near the deli."

"You sure you read the labels right? You *did* just throw up."

                "Aah, just stress. I'm all good now."

                ..........

                "You going to finish that song?"

                "Do I need to?"

                "...no, I suppose not."

                ..........

                "You still write crap lyrics."

                "Yuuukiiiii!!!!"

                There was bickering and sulking, teasing and making up, and no room for the silence. But even after they subsided, in the dark of the apartment, it didn't matter.

Silence had no place between them anymore.

**********

Saaappp.... __ I'm sure I'll look back on this one day and wonder what on earth I was thinking, but at the moment I'll merely revel. Cheers, hope you lot liked it! (And if you do, let me know, won't you? ^__^)

JL 


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